A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  He might be tired, but he also knew there was no chance of getting back to sleep after one of these nightmares; dreams which plagued him at least several times a month. As always, he was famished—as if he had lived the dream and actually spent days in the dark without food or water.

  He put on the heavy silver silk banyan Chalmers had purchased for him and slid his always cold feet into his sheepskin slippers.

  He would go to the kitchen and hunt for food. He’d not yet done that at Rushton Park, but Jessup was familiar enough with his nocturnal habits in London that he would know to have pies or bread and cheeses and such always waiting for him.

  The journey to the kitchen was a substantial one but it gave him a chance to look at his house without the presence of the dozens of servants he employed, people who were always at hand during the daylight hours to see that he never went without. While Gareth appreciated efficient servants, he sometimes felt like a visitor in his own house.

  He passed through the great hall into the corridor that housed the kitchen, laundry, servant quarters, and everything else that made the huge house run—usually for him alone. Which made him think of the woman and her son.

  Mrs. Lombard and Oliver, he reminded himself. It was a bad habit of his to refer to people by labels, rather than their names: the woman, the brewer, the architect. Something about putting names to faces always struck him as intrusive and overly familiar. Just one more of his hundreds of quirks and foibles, like the wall sconces he kept burning all through the night, which made his bill for candles probably greater than that in St. James Palace. Of course Gareth probably had more money than the King and could actually pay his bills.

  The candles burned everywhere, in every part of the house. Even those parts he rarely entered, and some—one part at least—which he would never enter: the cellars. It was a small price to pay in his opinion.

  One candle burned in the vast kitchens and Gareth lighted two more branches to banish the shadows to the fringes of the big room. In no time he’d located a loaf of bread, a large wheel of the crumbly white cheese he liked so much, and a small pot of pickled beef. He set out his feast on the sturdy wooden table beside the banked fire and went to the cold room to fetch a bottle of ale.

  Gareth munched his food and examined the massive, modern kitchen. It lacked the coziness of the cramped galley kitchen in his London townhouse, but there was something about kitchens that he liked; something that gave him comfort. Perhaps it was the proximity to food, and the knowledge he could eat as much as he wished. He had no need to go hungry ever again. Yet every time he came to feed he found himself oddly full, and had to force himself to take sustenance.

  Declan knew of Gareth’s odd food habits, mainly because he had a few of his own.

  “Those bastards fucked us up for good, Gare. Our only revenge is to live well.” Well, that had not been their only revenge, but Gareth knew what his friend meant.

  For years Declan had lived up to his promise, but Gareth thought his debaucheries had developed an air of forced desperation lately. How much drink, food, wealth, and women could one man pursue? Gareth had noticed even Declan’s appetites had withered over the past few years. His friend also hounded him far less now, which Gareth was greatly relieved about. For years the Irishman had battered and nagged him about drinking and gambling and whoring.

  “You need to live my friend! Live in any and every way you can. We know better than most how it can all be snatched away in the blink of an eye.”

  But Gareth had no taste for spirits, gambling of any type had been poisoned for him long ago, and women? Well, even the ones you hired cost more than their stated price. With people, there was always more than met the eye, which was as true—or more—with prostitutes as it was with anyone else.

  Not that Gareth didn’t have the sexual urges of any normal man—at least he thought he did, although Declan’s behavior in that arena had often astounded him. He certainly had no desire to engage in the orgies Dec had been so fond of a few years back. The very last thing he wanted was to have sexual relations with a large number of women, or even a small number, at one time. One woman at a time was more than adequate. Nor did he feel compelled to sample a broad spectrum of body types as Declan had advocated so many times. Gareth did not think the fact he’d had sex with only one person meant there was anything wrong with him.

  He snorted and popped a chunk of beef into his mouth. He knew there were many things wrong with him. But he did not think sex was one of his problems. Now women. . . well, that was—

  “Mr. Lockheart?”

  The chunk of beef went down the wrong hole when he sucked in a mouthful of air. His throat convulsed as his body tried to expel the foreign object from his airway without any conscious order from his brain. His eyes strained until he felt like they were popping out of his head—which felt like it had doubled in size.

  A sharp whack on his back slammed his chest into the table and sent the half-chewed chunk all the way across to the opposite chair.

  Gareth filled his lungs with blessed air, breathing convulsively in between coughing.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry for startling you. Don’t try to speak,” she added, not that he’d been either considering it or capable of it. The food was gone but his body seemed determined to make certain and coughing wracked his chest and his eyes, no longer bulging, teared profusely.

  It was all extremely mortifying. Thankfully, he felt her move away, which took at least half the stress and strain away. He collapsed on his forearms on the table and focused his attention on breathing deeply and evenly.

  When he felt capable of looking up without gasping, coughing, or weeping, he found a glass of water beside his plate. She was standing across from him, her face a mask of guilty concern.

  “Better?”

  He nodded, for once equipped with an excellent excuse for his characteristic taciturnity.

  “I couldn’t sleep and came down to make a pot of tea, which I often do. Would you like some tea?”

  He shook his head. She gave him an embarrassed smile and went about the business of brewing tea.

  Gareth drank the water and the beer and was considering getting up to get more when she put another full glass of water on the table and removed the two empties.

  “Thank you.” The words came out a ragged croak.

  Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he ate the remainder of the bread and meat on his plate. He was feeling back to normal by the time she returned to the table bearing a plate filled with biscuits and more of the cream cakes she seemed to favor.

  “Fairy cake?” she offered.

  For a change, Gareth took one. The cool cream felt good on his raw throat.

  They ate in companionable silence. When she’d finished her cake and had a sip of tea she looked up at him.

  “I often cannot sleep. I believe Jessup knows that and makes sure there are tasty tidbits waiting.”

  “Jessup knows everything.”

  She laughed even though Gareth had not been jesting, a not unusual occurrence for him. The butler was considered the best of his breed. Gareth had overheard some toff discussing him as a nonpareil and lamenting his inability to poach him from Remington. So Gareth had poached him instead.

  “How did you find the brewery?”

  Now that he was not occupied with struggling for breath he noticed she was wearing a dressing gown, her masses of curly hair tucked beneath one of the improbable bonnets some women insisted on wearing even when they slept. Gareth could not abide wearing a head covering to bed.

  Her raised eyebrows and enquiring look told him she was waiting for a response.

  “It is in need of a good deal of money and work.”

  “Is that what you hoped for?”

  “I believe it will suit our needs admirably. Mr. McElroy thinks otherwise.”

  She rested her chin on her hand, her brow furrowed. “And why is that?”

  “He
believes the structure is past the point of retrieval.” Dec’s exact words had been that the old brewery, “had gone to shite” but even Gareth knew that was unacceptable language in front of ladies.

  “What will you do?”

  “We have purchased the operation.”

  Her eyebrows jumped up. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Gareth could have told her more—how the owner’s son, a well-regarded brewer whose livelihood had been all but decimated by his father’s gambling, had wept openly at learning they would keep both he and his employees on—but he was finding the subject of the brewery slippery and elusive, like a piece of silk that kept sliding from his hands. He usually had the ability to concentrate with a fixity that made him deaf and blind to anything else. But right now he noticed her nightgown. It was buttoned up to her neck and was a gauzy white fabric that looked soft, fine, and was probably almost translucent. The dressing gown over it, which buttoned only slightly less high, was a practical garment of some fabric that looked rough enough to chafe if worn against skin. Gareth had a weak spot when it came to fine, luxurious materials; he was far more interested in the composition of his clothing than the cut. The fabric of her robe offended his sensibilities. It looked neither comfortable nor sumptuous. His hand, which lay on his thigh, twitched and he was contemplating leaning forward to test the texture with his thumb and forefinger when her voice brought him back to the present.

  “Mr. Lockheart? Do you feel well?” She leaned closer, bringing both her person and the unpleasant robe nearer. He caught a whiff of her: a clean soap smell with only a hint of the fresh grass smell he had noticed before. She must have bathed but not washed her hair. The faint salty tang of female sweat sent a jolt up his spine and an undeniable message to his brain: he wanted her.

  It was time for him to leave.

  Gareth cleared his throat and looked away from her distracting person. “Did you have enough to eat and drink?”

  She sat back a little at his cool tone but gave him a smile he was beginning to crave. “More than enough, thank you.” She stood and made as if to clear their dishes.

  “It is late, Mrs. Lombard, the servants can see to this in the morning.”

  She nodded. “You are correct, of course. No doubt they would prefer a mess to me mucking about with their system.” She preceded him from the room and he carried the candle he’d brought with him. She had come without one as there were so many in the halls.

  He kept a little behind her and could see the shape of her body beneath the ugly robe, which was more form fitting than either her habit or her morning dress. She had full, generous hips and it was easy to imagine them under his hands, his fingers gripping her soft flesh, holding her steady while he penetrated her and rode her to their mutual pleasure.

  He was hard and had been almost since he’d recovered from his bout of coughing. His imagination—which had a will of its own tonight—visualized bedding her, watching her eyes darken as he brought her to crisis. He imagined experiencing the particular fulfillment that only came from pleasuring one’s partner—making her scream and writhe—right before he brought himself to completion inside her.

  Gareth clenched his jaw; his desire for her was unfortunate but he was a man who knew how to exert self-control. Now that he was aware of the danger she presented to his concentration he would see to it that episodes such as this one—the two of them alone, thinly clothed—did not occur again.

  Tonight he would leave her at her door and then strip and vent his sexual energy on his punching bags.

  They came to the entrance to the grand hall and he reached around her to open the door. She reached at the same moment and their hands met.

  “Oh!” she tried to move back and found her hand held in his. She looked down and so did Gareth, perhaps even more surprised than she was. His body acted without his consent and he drew her toward him. She came toward him without hesitation, looking up at him, her unbound breasts pressing against his chest. For once, she was not smiling and her lips were parted. Her pupils had flared; a sign of desire. Gareth knew his own eyes would be just as dark. He slid a hand under the curve of her jaw, his fingers skimming the unspeakably soft skin of her slender neck and then he lowered his mouth over hers.

  ***

  His body was hard and warm, like stone made hot from the sun.

  Serena knew she should have turned around the moment she found him in the kitchen. She could have left without him ever knowing. Indeed, he would not have suffered a painful and embarrassing coughing episode if she had. But his back had been to her when she’d entered and the sight of his body pressed against the heavy silk of his robe had caught at her. The fabric had flowed over his sculpted backside like molten silver and had drawn a throb of want from her that almost brought her to her knees. Her hands had ached to feel the texture of his body, the heat and shape of him.

  His cool, speculative stare had not prepared her for this—for lips that were firm, soft, and hot and his slick, skilled, and determined tongue. He held her in a light grasp that did nothing to disguise the power in his sinuous frame. Fingertips teased and stroked the skin of her throat while he pushed closer, his hardness thrusting against her belly.

  Serena closed her eyes and sighed at the feel of raw male arousal, sagging against the muscular column of his body. It had been a long, long time since she’d taken a lover, and never one as beautiful or unknowable as this.

  He slid a second hand around her waist, his fingers kneading and massaging her uncorsetted body as he delved more deeply into her mouth, his rhythmic strokes making her hips buck against his. It would be so easy to simply give in to the long-repressed sensations he was drawing from her body without effort. She leaned in closer, her own hand snaking around his corded, narrow waist to rest at the top of his deliciously hard buttocks.

  This is a mistake, Serena. You will not be able to stay here after this. The voice was shrill and annoying, and Serena ignored it.

  He walked her slowly toward the wall, rubbing the stiff length of his erection against her as he pushed, until her shoulders hit the wall, but he kept coming.

  Stroke.

  Stroke.

  Stroke.

  His stiff length drew an answering pulse from her sex and she imagined his strong, insistent body entering hers, plunging into her with all the strength she knew he possessed. She could feel the struggle of will and desire that raged inside him. The slightest sign from her and he would take her right here, against the wall.

  I can have him right now. Her inner muscles clenched and tightened and she pushed back against him the next time he thrust, her body already preparing to welcome his, her thighs slick with desire.

  He made a low growling sound and bit her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, pulling her so hard the pain was exquisite. His knee nudged between her thighs and she opened to him.

  You will need to leave this place. It will be a disaster, for you, Serena, but especially for Oliver.

  Her son’s face—wearing a tragic expression—rose up in her mind and her eyes flew open; never had her ardor been extinguished so quickly.

  She laid her hands on his upper arms, that part of her mind that wanted him thrilling at the feel of hard, sculpted body. But her son’s face remained with her.

  She pulled back and his lips left hers immediately. When she looked up, she saw he was staring at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart strong, steady, and fast against her hard nipples and sensitive breasts.

  “Mr. Lockheart?” She sounded just as he had after his coughing fit.

  He dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back, putting empty space between their bodies.

  His eyes never wavered from hers. “I apologize, Mrs. Lombard.”

  She shook her head, unable to come up with anything coherent to say.

  He turned away and opened the door, waiting until she’d gone through. The silent journey to the fami
ly quarters took a hundred years.

  They stopped at her door and he bowed his head. “Good night, Mrs. Lombard.”

  “Good night, Mr. Lockheart.” But he’d already turned away and his silk robe receded down the hall and disappeared around the corner in a flash of silver.

  Back inside her room, Serena couldn’t help wondering if it had all been a dream. But when she looked in the small mirror that hung beside the door her eyes sparkled and her lips were swollen and bruised, just as if she’d been thoroughly kissed.

  Chapter Ten

  Serena went down to breakfast almost three hours later than usual. Part of that was because she’d not gone back to sleep until dawn. The other part was because she hoped to avoid encountering Mr. Lockheart, a foolish impulse as she would have to see him again eventually.

  But the breakfast room was empty when she arrived and Jessup was examining the contents of the chafing dishes when she entered.

  “Good morning, Jessup. I am sorry to keep you waiting. A pot of coffee, please,” she told the footman—Raymond—before going to fix herself a plate.

  “Only Mr. Lockheart has been down and he left just after first light.”

  She looked up from the fresh dish of eggs Jessup must have just brought. “Oh?”

  “He will not be back until tomorrow. He said to inform you he has gone to acquire some necessary materials for next week.”

  “Ah.” Serena felt the relief of a prisoner who has received a temporary reprieve.

  “He informed me Master Oliver is to have his dogs with him wherever he chooses and requested I advise as to the best place to feed them.”

  Serena grimaced. “Oh, poor Jessup. It’s like the duke’s house all over again.”

  Jessup permitted himself the ghost of a smile. “If I may say so, Mrs. Lombard, I have quite missed having dogs underfoot.”